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There has to be.
Why else would the sight of someone’s hands send me off the deep end?
Mac gives me directions after I turn the key in the ignition, and I do my best to keep my eyes on the road. My attention is on him, though. On the way he leans an elbow against the door, cupping his face between his thumb and forefinger. How he slouches down just a bit and his shirt rides up at the side. How the fingers of his other hand drum over his thigh to a rhythm only he can hear.
All this I see with my peripheral vision and a few brief, stolen glances. If I look directly at him, I might spontaneously combust.
Maybe if I turn the radio on, it’ll give me something else to listen to. “You can choose the station,” I tell Mac after I turn the volume knob to an appropriate level. “I usually just leave it on classic rock.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Mac says in that deep, sensual voice of his, and my panties grow damp.
Not knowing what else to do, I start chanting a mantra in my head: Get a grip, Trina. Get a grip, Trina. Get a grip, Trina.
I squeeze the steering wheel tighter. This is getting out of control.
He’s just a man in black jeans and a tight tee. He’s got a deep, smooth voice and a body I’d like to lick, and so what? I just separated from my husband six months ago! I am officially divorced as of this morning. I have children. I have responsibilities which now include a cat. The last thing I need is some romance with a badass motorcycle man who looks good when he’s changing a tire.
“Pull in here. I can see Remy through the garage doors.” Mac points to the mechanic in front of us and directs me to a parking space off to the side.
Is it wrong that I’m enjoying him telling me what to do?
My brain seems to have remained in the box with our new kitten this morning, and everything between my ears is scrambled mush. I park the car, thankfully without crashing and embarrassing myself, then let out a long breath.
“You okay?” Mac has one hand on the door, but his eyes are on me. “It’s just a flat tire, Trina. Remy is a good friend of mine. He’ll give you a discount.” He tilts his head, gaze intent. “I’ll ask him to service the car and make sure there’s nothing else the matter with it. Everything will be okay.”
Gah. He’s being sweet. I don’t know if I can handle Sweet Mac. Sexy Mac is nearly too much for me, but I can put him in a box reserved for sex and lock him away, because I do not have sex with strange men.
Repeat after me: Katrina Viceroy does not have sex with strange men.
Period.
End of story.
For him to look at me with soft eyes and tell me he’ll take care of me? Nope. Too much.
I’m supposed to be focused on my children, my mother, and myself (and the cat). I’m supposed to be calling my lawyer and making sure everything is squared away. I’m supposed to be preparing for Kevin’s visit in two weeks. I’m supposed to be doing anything but sitting in a car with a man who makes me want to strip naked and get in the back seat of this old beater.
Not to mention the reason I look so frazzled isn’t the damn flat tire, it’s the mountain of muscle and male sex sitting to my right. But can I tell him that?
Ha. Exactly.
I try to give him a reassuring smile, but my lips freeze when Mac moves his hand toward me. His touch is feather-light, barely brushing my skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His finger runs along my temple, smoothing down the shell of my ear in a slow, deliberate movement.
I feel that touch somewhere much, much lower.
When I swallow, Mac’s gaze brushes my throat, my collarbone, before sliding toward the garage, where Remy is angling toward us.
“I’m fine,” I hear myself say, then I scramble out of the car.
Mac’s hands are near me again. He’s currently clicking the clasp on a helmet under my chin, his eyes intent on his work. He’s still dressed in his badass black outfit, except now he has an equally badass leather jacket and a helmet of his own.
I’m not into bad boys. Never have been. Kevin was soft, and sweet, and artistic. He took me on a picnic to the park for our first date. He spent his days painting and talking about textures and movement and shape. Our house wasn’t a house, it was a “sculptural piece.” If someone told him to ride a motorcycle, he’d probably just ask to paint it instead.
I liked that about my ex-husband. I liked that he wasn’t macho, that he didn’t need to prove his masculinity to feel like a man. I liked that he was talented and brilliant and unapologetically creative. I liked, most of all, that he was a caring father and a loving husband.
Then I found out he was cheating on me, and I wondered if I was blind, or just stupid.
But there’s something about the confidence of Mac’s movements that reaches deep into my gut and pushes my past aside. He changed my tire like he could do it in his sleep. He sat in my car like he owned it. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear like touching me meant the world.
